


Some Flare Out

by sevenfists



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-28
Updated: 2007-01-28
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Sandy meets Jensen for the first time at a barbecue in Eric's back yard, that first September after they start filming, when it's still warm enough to be outside. She's wearing a halter top and a pair of shorts, and she sees his eyes flicker to her breasts, her bare legs. She frowns at him, clinging to Jared's arm, ready to rip him a new one if he says anything.





	Some Flare Out

**Author's Note:**

> mcee told me to write it, cheered me on, and gave me all of the good parts.

Sandy meets Jensen for the first time at a barbecue in Eric's back yard, that first September after they start filming, when it's still warm enough to be outside. She's wearing a halter top and a pair of shorts, and she sees his eyes flicker to her breasts, her bare legs. She frowns at him, clinging to Jared's arm, ready to rip him a new one if he says anything.

He doesn't say anything, though. He holds out his hand and smiles at her. "It's great to meet you," he says.

She shakes his hand, listens as he banters with Jared, the two of them already settled into an easy camaraderie. He seems like a nice guy. He asks her about her work, and at least pretends to be interested when she talks about the commercials she's filming.

"I like him," she says to Jared, later, when they're driving back to his apartment.

"I'm glad, baby," he says, leaning over to kiss her. "He's a good guy."

She doesn't see Jensen again for two months. She's back in LA, doing some music videos and a few guest spots on CSI. Sandy knows she isn't a great actor, but she's in high demand for her dancing, and it pays the bills. Not everybody in LA can star in their own TV show. Sandy's happy doing what she's doing. She's got a little two-bedroom house that she shares with her friend Yesenia, and sometimes Jared comes down for the weekends and they go to the all-night pancake house at 3am, the three of them tumbling drunken into the creaking booth, giggling at the way Jared dangles a spoon off the end of his nose.

Sandy's happy with her life. She loves her work, and she loves Jared, and she loves the flash and glimmer of LA, the way it never stops.

Supernatural's starting to take off, and Jared and Jensen come down to LA for the weekend to do some TV interviews and a few radio spots. Sandy goes to the station with Jared, at some ridiculously butt-early hour of the morning, and Jensen's there, standing there in a backstage corridor, bleary-eyed and clutching a paper cup with both hands.

"Hey," Sandy says, sidling up to him. Jared's been whisked off to make-up. She can hear his laughter booming down the hallway. He'll probably make every one of the make-up girls fall in love with him by the time he leaves.

"Sandy," he says. "Hi. Kinda early, isn't it?"

She shrugs. "Jared sulks if I don't come along."

"I bet," Jensen says, his grin a quick flash. "Hey, you want some coffee? I think they've got some around here somewhere."

"You don't sound too sure," Sandy teases.

"Somebody just handed me this," Jensen says, holding up his coffee. "I guess, maybe you could yawn a whole lot and see what happens."

Sandy laughs. "Well, maybe."

She watches from off-stage as they do their interview. Jared's his usual self, laughing and boisterous, making the female anchor blush. Jensen smiles a lot but doesn't say much, and Sandy sees the way he lets Jared answer most of the questions, the way he deflects attention away from himself.

She's curious about him. Most of Jared's friends are loud and jocular, talking over each other and taking stupid bets. Jared seems to like Jensen a lot, though. It's enough to make Sandy wonder what Jared sees in him.

Jared takes her out to breakfast after that, and then they go back to her house and fuck on the kitchen table, and she forgets all about Jensen.

The next time she sees him, she's up in Vancouver for the weekend, and Jared takes her to a bar for drinks with the crew after they wrap for the day. Jim tells her a really hilarious story about Jared's trailer, helium balloons, and a can of sardines. She's laughing at him, her whiskey sour sloshing dangerously, when she spots Jensen at the other end of the bar. She waves at him and goes back to listening to Jim.

Later, she's getting eyeliner tips from the makeup girls when Jensen wanders over, longneck bottle dangling from his fingers. "Hey," he says, and kisses one of the girls on the cheek. "Are y'all tellin' her all kinds of lies about me?"

"Only good ones," the girl says, and swats Jensen's ass. His eyes bug out, and Sandy laughs, delighted.

"Jensen tries to act like he's a real man," the makeup girl says to Sandy, "but we know better." They all giggle.

"I think I've been insulted," Jensen says.

One of the other girls rolls her eyes, grinning. "Get out of here, Ackles. We're having girl talk."

"I know stuff about manicures," Jensen says.

The makeup girls all look at each other, and then simultaneously give Jensen the thumbs down.

"I think Jared's playing pool," Sandy says, taking pity on him. "He stinks at it. You should go kick his ass."

"Thanks," Jensen says, and smiles at her.

She watches them for a while: Jared flailing around with his cue, good-naturedly accepting the heckling from the tech guys; and Jensen calmly leaning over the table and sinking every shot. Jared gets Jensen in a head-lock and gives him a vigorous noogie. Jensen ducks away from him, laughing.

She and Jared go back to his apartment and have sex three times before they fall asleep. She feels like she's bursting, full of alcohol and happiness and how much she loves Jared, which is like a living thing inside of her, sending up new shoots.

Over winter hiatus, Jared takes her to the Bahamas for five days, and they lie on the beach and go to restaurants and laze around in bed until noon. She hates Christmas—it's always hard, without her parents and her brother—but floating on her back in the water, listening to Jared holler advice about what to do if a shark eats her, it's easy to forget about everything but the sun and the rolling waves.

They spend New Year's in LA, at a party Sandy's friend Julia throws. At midnight, Jared dips Sandy backward, like they're in an old movie from the 40s, and kisses her long and sweet. She clings to him, laughing against his mouth, dizzy from the blood rushing to her head and from how much she loves him.

By the end of the month, there are murmurs of a second season for the show, and Sandy flies up to Vancouver to help Jared look for a house. They find a bungalow close to downtown, with wood floors and big windows, and a fenced-in back yard for the dogs. Jared has to duck his head to pass through the doorways, but Sandy knows he'll buy the house anyway.

The day he moves in, she buys a pink-handled toothbrush and sets it next to his in the medicine cabinet.  
Jared spots it right away. "Stakin' your claim, huh?" he says, and kisses the top of her head.

"Can't let these Vancouver girls get any ideas," Sandy says. Mostly she just always forgets to pack her toothbrush, and running to the drug store at midnight really sucks.

She flies up again the next weekend, for the housewarming. Jared's in a state of panic when she gets there, freaking out about whether the bathroom floor is clean enough.

"I'll take care of it, baby," Sandy says, steering him into the kitchen. "You just worry about dinner, okay?"

"Okay," Jared says. He's got three pots on the stove and a foil-covered casserole dish waiting to go in the oven.

She goes to check out the bathroom. The floor's so clean she can practically see her own reflection in the linoleum. She goes back into the kitchen for a beer.

"It's filthy, isn't it," Jared says, stirring.

"It's fine," Sandy says. "You're a pansy."

"Yup," Jared says cheerfully.

The party doesn't officially start until 7, but the house is packed by 6:30. Sandy's only met a handful of the people who show up, but they all introduce themselves to her: tech guys, wardrobe ladies, people Jared's met in the city. They've all heard about her.

"You're just as nice as Jared says," one of the wardrobe ladies enthuses.

Sandy blinks. "Jared says I'm nice?"

"Sweet as pie," Jared says, coming up behind her. "Thanks for coming, Melinda!"

The wardrobe lady—Melinda—blushes and lets Jared pull her into a hug. Sandy watches, amused. There isn't a woman alive who's immune to Jared's charms.

"You're such a charmer," she tells him, once Melinda's staggered off, looking dazed.

"That's why you love me," Jared says.

"No, it's mostly the sex," Sandy says.

"Okay, I can live with that," Jared says, grinning.

Sandy goes back to the kitchen for another beer. Jensen's in there, lurking by the cooler. He's wearing a polka-dotted party hat. She thinks Mike put it on him. The elastic strap cuts into the skin of his neck.  
"That's a good look for you," she says.

Jensen ducks his head, smiling a little. "You think so? It's hard to derail Mike once he's gotten an idea in his head."

"Polka dots are the hot look for spring '06," Sandy says. "It's good to see you, Jensen."

"You too," Jensen says. "How've you been?"

"Good," Sandy says, and tells him all about the commercial she's filming. "So, I mean, it's nothing too exciting. Basically I'm the Hot Girl again."

"I bet you're good at that," Jensen says.

"The best," Sandy says, laughing.

Mike comes into the kitchen, then, with a posse of girls Sandy doesn't recognize. None of them are wearing much clothing. "Party people!" Mike bellows.

"Oh Christ," Jensen mutters.

Mike skids across the floor in his socked feet and takes Sandy's hand in his own. "Lovely lady," he says, bending to kiss her knuckles.

"Hi, Mike," Sandy says. Jared's a big Mike fan, which doesn't surprise Sandy at all—both of them think that butts and farting are the height of humor. It's kind of charming, if you don't mind listening to lengthy discussions about who took the week's most satisfying dump.

Mike slings an arm around Jensen's shoulders. "You look too sober," he says.

"That's because I am," Jensen says.

"Well come with me, my man, I have the finest weed this side of the border," Mike says. "Sandra? Would you like to partake?"

Sandy opens her mouth to decline and hears herself saying, "Sure, why not."

Which is how she finds herself involved in the first game of spin-the-bottle she's played since eighth grade. She doesn't even know whose idea it is—Mike's, probably—but the room's dim and a little hazy with smoke, and Sandy feels warm and relaxed all over, and she sits in the circle and spins the bottle around when it's her turn.

She kisses Mike, and Nathan the sound guy, and a few of the girls Mike brought with him, who all taste like the same peach lipgloss. Everyone's laughing, passing a joint around. The bottle spins around again and it's point right at her, and Jensen's at the other end of it, the invisible line passing through the circle and connecting them, point A and point B.

Jensen's mouth moves, but Sandy can't hear what he's saying. She crawls toward him, her jeans sliding against the carpet, the nubbly fiber texture beneath her palms. He's watching her, pupils blown.

"You gonna kiss her or just look like an asshole?" Mike asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Kiss her," Jensen says, still staring right at Sandy.

"Come on," Sandy says. It's a challenge.

Jensen lifts his hand and cups her jaw, stroking his thumb along her cheek. He kisses her, a sweet, slow glide of lips, both their mouths chastely closed.

Sandy pulls back, grinning, ready for the next spin, but Jensen wraps his free hand in her hair and leans back in, his breath hot against her lips for an instant before he kisses her, his tongue slipping in when she inhales her surprise.

She's too startled to move, and he cradles her skull in both hands and flickers his tongue across the roof of her mouth, ticklish and unexpected.

Somebody wolf-whistles. Sandy jerks back, her face hot, and reaches up to smooth out her hair.

"You're a big pimp daddy, Ackles," Mike says.

Jensen leans back on his hands, expression unreadable, and Sandy feels his eyes on her back as she stands up and goes to sit on the sofa.

Jared takes her out to brunch the next morning because the kitchen's too trashed to cook in. She has Orange Julius and a fruit plate and half of Jared's toast. He rattles on about the next episode they'll be filming, and she makes encouraging noises and thinks about Jensen's mouth, his fingers in her hair.

She feels awful. She _liked_ it, but she's so in love with Jared, and Jensen probably didn't mean anything by it, anyway—they were all so high by that point. But she remembers the way he looked at her and isn't so sure.

"You okay, baby?" Jared asks.

"Yeah," Sandy says. "Yeah. Just a little hung over."

She puts it out of her mind, after that. They were both messed up, and Mike was egging them on, and it didn't mean anything. If she tells Jared about it, he'll probably laugh and ask her how it was.

She doesn't tell Jared about it.

She sees Jensen again in March, at the Paley thing in LA. Jared flits off to do some press thing, and Sandy looks for the food. Preferably something with chocolate in it. She's got a sinus infection, and the antibiotics are making her nauseated and cranky. She just wants to hole up somewhere and eat until it's time to go home.

There little pudding cups set out, chocolate and vanilla swirled together, with Oreo crumbs sprinkled on top. It'll do. She grabs one and goes to eat it in the green room. Nobody's back there; they're all out talking to reporters. Sandy curls up on the couch with her pudding and thinks about all the ways she's going to make Jared pay for dragging her to this.

The pudding's really good. She goes back for seconds.

She's just started to feel a little less horrible when the door creaks open, and she braces herself to deal with whoever it is. She doesn't feel sociable _at all_ , and she really hopes she doesn't have to make nice to somebody she doesn't know.

It's Jensen. He crosses the room and drops onto the sofa beside her, slumped down, his head resting against the high back. He exhales loudly and smiles at her. "Hi," he says.

"Fancy meeting you here," Sandy says. "Want some pudding?"

Jensen's eyebrows go up. "Uh, sure," he says. "What flavor?"

"Swirl," Sandy says. She hands him the cup and her spoon. "It's got Oreo crumbs on it."

"My favorite," Jensen says, and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smile. He takes a bite of the pudding.

Sandy presses on her cheekbones and winces at the ache. She's all groggy, and the post-nasal drip's about to make her lose her mind. "Ugh," she says.

"You okay?" Jensen asks, scraping the last of the pudding out of the bottom of the cup.

"Yeah," Sandy says. "Just a little sick." Her jaw cracks when she yawns. She scoots over and tilts her head onto Jensen's shoulder, curling into him. "I'm gonna sleep on you, okay?"

"Okay," Jensen says.

Sandy closes her eyes.

She wakes up when Jared's hands close around her shoulders—she knows them, the length of his fingers, his big joints.

"Hey, babe," he says. "Time to go."

She sits up, blinks. Jensen's still sitting there, holding the empty pudding cup in his right hand. There's a wet spot on his shirt—it looks like she drooled on him. She brushes at the corner of her mouth, feeling it wet with saliva. "Sorry," she says.

"It's okay," Jensen says, and there's something about his expression—but Sandy's so bleary, and Jared's levering her off the couch, laughing softly, and Sandy puts her hands in his and lets him pull her upright and into his arms.

"Bye, Jensen," she says, already thinking of Jared's warm bed. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Sorry she drooled on you, man," Jared says. "She's not really housebroken."

"Shut up, Padalecki," Sandy says, and smiles against his mouth when he kisses her.

***

Jensen was sixteen the first time he fell in love—with a cheerleader named Amy, and her brown pigtails that swung in wide arcs when she was tossed into the air. When he kissed her, he felt a hot rush down to his knees, a sweet rubbery feeling that turned him inside-out.

He felt it the first time he saw Sandy, and every time after: the way her eyes crinkle up when she smiles, her hair, her delighted laugh. It's how he knows he's in trouble. It's so stupid—he barely knows her, mostly just things Jared's told him—but he can't deny the way she makes his belly knot up and flip over.

He sees her in April, briefly, when she's up in Vancouver for the weekend and the whole crew goes out to a bar on Friday night. She hangs on Jared's arm, laughing with one of the makeup girls, and Jensen goes to get another beer. When he comes back, she and Jared have left.

The next time's in May, at another one of Eric's cook-outs. She's wearing a flower-print sundress and flip-flops, and her toenails are painted bright pink. He can't stop thinking about the Paleys—when she drooled on his shirt, her little warm body curled up against his. It makes his whole body hurt, a deep ache, that he feels like this about Jared's girlfriend—Jared, who's a good guy and a good friend, and who deserves Sandy in a way that Jensen never will.

He avoids her all evening—loiters in the kitchen until she comes inside, then ducks out into the backyard. He finds some tech guys he's friends with and hangs out with them, shoots the shit about their girlfriends and babies. They're all either married or getting there, and it makes Jensen's stomach feel tight and sour.

Jared wanders up after a while, beer in hand, and slings a companionable arm across Jensen's shoulders. "Hey, man, you seen Sandy?" he asks.

"No," Jensen says. "Why, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, she's probably just off with Marian," Jared says, unconcerned, already looking toward someone at the other end of the living room, pulling away.

Jensen finds her in one of the upstairs bathrooms, hunched over the toilet, her hair pulled back from her head in a sloppy ponytail, fastened with a rubber band.

"Oh, Sandy," he says, and closes the door behind him.

She lifts her head, squinting against the dim light of the overhead fixture. "Jensen?" she says.

"Yeah," he says. "Are you okay?"

She coughs a little, grimaces. "I drank too much," she says, sounding small and pitiful, and Jensen's heart contracts in his chest.

"I'll be right back," he says. "Okay? I'll be back."

"Okay," Sandy says weakly.

He goes down the kitchen and finds a box of Premium Plus crackers and a bottle of water. The room's crowded, and he has to fight his way through, giving tight smiles to the people who try to talk to him. He feels like an ass, but Sandy's upstairs, hunched and miserable on the bathroom floor, and she's all he can think about.

He should probably tell Jared. He doesn't.

Sandy's right where he left her, her elbows propped on the toilet seat, head cradled in her hands. She looks up when he comes in, and then promptly leans forward and retches, her body spasming with awful dry heaves.

Jensen drops to his knees and brushes her hair out of her eyes, smoothes back her ponytail. "Oh sugar," he says, the endearment falling off his tongue like he never left Texas.

She sits back, wiping at her mouth. "I'm so drunk, Jensen, oh god, I'm so sorry, are you going to hate me now?" She coughs, spits into the toilet.

He puts a hand on her back, hesitantly, feeling the knobbed ridge of her spine under the thin fabric of her dress. "I don't hate you," he says.

"Good," Sandy says. "I don't want you to hate me, Jensen, okay? I would be really sad if you hated me."

"I don't hate you," Jensen says, and rubs her back in slow, wide circles. Her ribs shrink and expand, and when she starts retching again, he feels it ripple through her.

She's beautiful. So sick and pale, and dry-heaving into the toilet, and he thinks she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. In that moment, sitting there with her on Kripke's bathroom floor, he knows that he's well and truly fucked.

"Here," he says. "Can you drink some water?"

"No," Sandy says, shaking her head furiously, her ponytail swinging. "Nope. No way."

"Just a little bit," Jensen says. "Two swallows, Sandy, come on."

"God, _fine_ ," Sandy says, and lets him take the cap off the bottle, hold it to her lips. She makes a face, but then takes the bottle from him and chugs half of it, her throat working.

"There," Jensen says, still rubbing her back. "You want some crackers?"

"Maybe in a minute," Sandy says. She puts the bottle on the floor. "I wanna lie down."

"Okay," Jensen says. He scoots back until he's leaning against the side of the tub, and Sandy curls up beside him, her head on his thigh, and Jensen's horrified by how fast his heart's beating, by how much he wants to make everything better for her.

"I feel so bad," she moans.

He touches her hair tentatively, brushing flyaway strands away from her face. "I know," he says.

Sandy falls asleep, after a while, her breaths slowing and evening out. Jensen strokes her hair and watches her, the slack shape of her mouth, the little mole on her face.

He loses track of time. His leg falls asleep, but he doesn't want to move Sandy and risk waking her up. At some point, the door creaks open, and when he looks up, Jared's standing there.

"Oh, hey, what's going on?" he asks quietly, his face all wrinkled up, concerned.

"She's pretty messed up," Jensen says.

Jared crouches down and touches Sandy's shoulder, shaking her gently. "Baby, come on, let's get you home," he says.

Sandy's eyes open; she blinks and rubs at her mouth. "Jared?"

"I'm here, baby. Jensen's been takin' good care of you, huh?"

"Yeah," Sandy says. She sits up, and Jared's hands wrap around her waist, supporting her. She smiles at Jensen. "Thank you."

"Least I could do," Jensen says.

Jared helps her out, murmuring things to her that Jensen can't hear. She looks so small beside him, and fragile, and Jared has to bend way over to kiss the top of her head. He hears Sandy giggle, and then their footsteps go down the stairs, and Jensen's alone in the bathroom, sitting there on the slightly-damp bathmat.

He doesn't get up right away. The party's ending, and he should go home soon, but first he sits there for a while, holding the half-empty bottle of water and the rubber band that he'd carefully worked out of Sandy's hair.

Sandy calls him the next day, mid-afternoon, while he's doing the dishes. He's running out of things to clean. When the phone buzzes, he wipes his hands on his jeans and answers.

"Hey, it's Sandy," Sandy says, sounding perkier than she should.

"Hey," Jensen says. "You feelin' better?"

"Yeah, Jared made me drink about five gallons of water last night before he'd let me go to bed," she says, laughing. "Look, I'm really sorry about all that, like, you should _not_ have had to see me puke—"

"It's fine," Jensen says, biting his tongue against all the other things he wants to say: _why were you_ and _where was he_ and _I feel things for you that I shouldn't_.

"Well, okay," Sandy says, "but still, I want to make it up to you. Can I take you out for brunch tomorrow? There's this great place downtown, they make the _best_ Belgian waffles—"

"You really don't have to," Jensen says, panicking, thinking of sitting there across from Sandy for an hour or more, making conversation and _wanting_ her and he doesn't know if he's ready to deal with that.

"I want to," Sandy says. "Come on, Jensen, it's the least I can do."

"But—"

"I'll pick you up at 11:30!" Sandy says, and hangs up.

Jensen spends the evening scrubbing the shower grout with a toothbrush.

Sandy's fifteen minutes late the next morning. Jensen knows this because he's sitting at the kitchen table, pretending to drink coffee and read the paper, but really watching the clock hands slowly tick along. It means nothing—they're _friends_ , she's just being friendly—but his heart's beating in a stupid flutter nonetheless, pounding hard against his ribs. He wants her.

The intercom buzzes. He leaps up to press the button and the paper falls off the table and spreads out all over the floor.

"Sorry I'm late!" Sandy says, her voice dim and crackling through the speaker. "You ready to go?"

The restaurant's right on the waterfront. Sandy has reservations, and they're seated on the outdoor deck, looking out over the water. It's a beautiful, sunny day—Vancouver's attempt at making up for the months of dreary skies and drizzle. Sandy's wearing a tank top and a cardigan, her hair pulled back in pigtails, and she looks bright-eyed and happy.

"So," she says, while they're waiting for their food, "what are you doing for hiatus?"

"I'm, uh. I'm actually going to be in LA," Jensen says. "I've got this movie—"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Sandy says. "Jared didn't say anything to me! You have to tell me all about it."

Jensen tries to keep it brief, but Sandy keeps asking him questions, and Jensen finds himself warming to the topic, talking about the script and Priestly's motivations and the crazy makeup stuff that's planned.

Their food comes—Belgian waffles for Sandy, an omelet and fruit for Jensen. Sandy pours syrup on her waffles with an almost manic glee. Her waffles are topped with strawberries, and she pulls the stem off one and takes a bite, her eyes fluttering blissfully closed as her teeth sink in.

Jensen inhales, looks out at the boats plowing white furrows in the water.

"Hey, so I'm going to be in LA too," Sandy says. "I think Jared's going home for a while, but I hate Texas, and plus I've got this commercial that I'm filming—so anyway, if we'll both be in town, we should totally hang out."

"Yeah," Jensen says. "Totally."

Sandy smiles so wide, and Jensen's doomed: he's too deep in, and at this point all he can do is ride it out and see what happens.

That night, he polishes off a six-pack, and falls asleep on the sofa during a rerun of "Seinfeld."

He dreams that he's back in Texas, sitting in a lawn chair in the front yard of the house he grew up in. His dad's ancient pickup truck is parked in the driveway. It's sunny and hot, and he's holding a glass filled with something margarita-like. There's a little paper umbrella stuck in it. He knows what kind of dream this is.

Sandy appears then, wearing a tiny red bikini top and a pair of even tinier cut-off shorts, soapy sponge in hand, carefully washing the rear bumper. She looks at Jensen, hair falling into her eyes, and winks dramatically.

Cicadas are buzzing somewhere in the bushes. The grass is too long, brushing against Jensen's knees. He spreads his legs a little, feeling blood pooling in his groin, his body already preparing for whatever's going to happen—it's going to be good, he knows.

Sandy raises the sponge to her neck and squeezes, soaking herself with soapy water, her nipples hardening under the now-wet fabric of her bikini. "Do you like to watch me, Jensen?" she asks.

"Yes," Jensen says. He swallows hard. "I, uh. _Yes_."

"Good," Sandy says. She reaches behind her neck and unties her bikini, lifts it off over her head. Her tits are full and round, tanned to the same color as the rest of her skin, and she strokes her wet hands over them, making them soap-slick and shiny.

Jensen's mouth goes dry. He can almost _feel_ the curves of her breasts beneath his hands, and he tries to get up and go to her, run his hands carefully all over her body, but he's pinned to the chair, somehow; he can't even touch himself, his hard-on suddenly urgent inside his swim trunks.

Sandy saunters closer, hips swaying, her fingers twisting her nipples harshly. She stops right in front of Jensen, too close, right in his personal space, and he can smell her cunt from here, rich and musky. He can't _breathe_ , he's so—and she's—

"I want you to take off my shorts," Sandy breathes, her hair a dark halo around her head.

"Okay," Jensen croaks. He can move his hands, then, and he unbuttons her shorts with awkward fingers and fumbles the zipper down, hooks his fingers in the waistband and _tugs_.

She isn't wearing anything underneath. He spreads her open with two fingers, leans forward and licks at her peach-smooth cunt, the taste of her sharp on his tongue, and she moans and grabs at his head, lifts one foot to rest on the arm of the chair, giving him better access.

"Oh, _god_ ," Jensen says, a tiny puff of breath against her slick flesh, and he's—

And then he's awake, halfway drunk on his own sofa, and spilling into his own hand, his body shaking violently with his orgasm.

He stumbles into the bathroom to wash his hands. He's ashamed of himself. It's a bitter flavor in his mouth.

He promises himself that he won't call Sandy—he _won't_ , he can't inflict himself on her, feeling the way he does, with his own subconscious objectifying her, making her into some kind of sex object when he _knows_ she's more than that.

He won't call.

Looking at himself in the mirror, his pale face and dark undereye circles, he knows he's lying to himself.

***

Sandy's out getting margaritas with the girls when her phone buzzes, and she doesn't check to see who called until later that night, when she's home and drunk and sleepy. The number's Jensen's. She can't think why he's calling her, and then remembers that she told him to. She hasn't thought about him in weeks, busy with work and with planning Julia's baby shower.

She calls him the next day, after she's gone for a jog and showered and made eggs and toast for breakfast.

"Hello?" he says, and yawns.

Sandy grins at the sound. "Too early for you, Ackles? I had three margaritas last night and then I woke up this morning and went for a five-mile run."

"Sandy," he says. "Hi. Three margaritas, huh? I guess you've got a stomach of iron."

She laughs. "You know it! Hey, you want to come over tonight? We can watch bad horror movies and I'll drink you under the table."

"Okay," Jensen says, laughing. "What time?"

"7:30," Sandy says. "Don't be late, I'll get grumpy!"

It's Saturday, which means she scrubs the whole house from top to bottom and goes grocery shopping. Yesenia sleeps at her boyfriend's place more nights than not, and Sandy mostly feels like she's living alone. It's nice, sometimes, but sometimes she gets lonely. It'll be good to have Jensen over.

He's right on time, pulling into her driveway at 7:28 exactly. She can't say she's surprised; Jensen's too conscientious for his own good, sometimes.

"Hi," he says when she opens the door, and holds up a six-pack. "I brought provisions."

Sandy beams. "I have guacamole and chips."

"I guess we're set, then," Jensen says, his eyes crinkling up.

They watch "Scream," and "Evil Dead 2," and then "Dawn of the Dead," which genuinely terrifies Sandy. She clings to Jensen's arm and shrieks whenever a zombie appears on screen.

"It's just a movie, Sandy," Jensen says, grinning into the flickering light cast by the TV.

"Shut up," Sandy says. "What if there are zombies outside my house _right now_?"

"I'll protect you," Jensen says.

It's past midnight when he leaves. "You sure you can drive?" Sandy asks him.

"I had two beers! I'm fine," he says.

"Well, okay! I don't want you dying," Sandy says.

"I won't," he says. He steps out onto the front porch and turns to face her. "Thanks for having me over. This was a lot of fun."

"It was," Sandy says. "We'll have to do it again sometime, okay?"

"I'd like that," Jensen says. He takes a step toward her, and she can't read his expression but it almost looks like—and then she's thinking about it again, with no warning: that night at Tom's, and the slick press of Jensen's tongue into her mouth—

"Good night," she says, and closes the door.

She tidies the living room, gathering up empty beer bottles and plastic bowls with chip crumbs and the scraped-clean guacamole dish. Her face feels hot, and she knows she's probably bright red, thinking about it, thinking about _Jensen_ —

She touches herself in bed that night, almost furtively, refusing to think about _anything_ because she might end up thinking about things she shouldn't be thinking about. It's just the swift rub of her fingers against her clit—just friction, that's all. It doesn't mean anything.

She does her best to talk some sense into herself the next day. She drinks too much coffee and watches one of the Oprah episodes on her Tivo. Oprah tells her that it's okay to be herself, and Sandy pays close attention. Oprah's so wise.

There's nothing wrong with looking at other men. Jared's always asking her if she thinks so-and-so is hot—he thinks it's _funny_. And yeah, maybe it's a little weird that she's attracted to Jensen, who's her friend as well as Jared's, and who's way too polite and well-mannered to have ever had a dirty thought in his entire life—

But then she starts thinking about his mouth again, the expert way he'd kissed her, and she isn't so sure.

She's allowed to think he's hot. He _is_. Fourteen-year-old girls and housewives across America think so. It's just harmless fantasizing, it won't hurt anybody, it doesn't _mean_ anything.

She calls Jared, then, and they have really amazing phone sex, Jared gasping in her ear and telling her to slide three fingers up her cunt, and groaning dramatically when he comes. She feels a lot better after that.

"I love you, baby," she tells him.

"I love you, too," he says. "Hey, I'll be comin' out soon to see you, yeah?"

"I can't wait," Sandy says.

That's in June. She works, goes shopping, hangs out with her girls. She doesn't hear from Jensen for a while, but then he calls her one Saturday morning, when he doesn't need to be on set, and they end up getting lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant near the apartment Jensen's renting. It's nice. She thought it might be kind of awkward, but it isn't at all. Jensen tells her about his movie, and they have a few drinks, and it's—it's _nice_. He always listens to what she says, and asks questions, and makes her feel like he's really _interested_.

He's a good friend. That's all.

They hang out pretty frequently after that, movie nights at her place or his, brunch on the weekends. Jensen has a dry, subtle sense of humor, and he makes a mean lasagna, and Sandy likes him a lot. He teaches her how to play video games and even lets her win once in a while.

Jared comes to visit for a week in July, and things are weird between them from the moment she meets him at the airport baggage claim. They fuck and cook and go for runs together, the same as always, but it isn't the same—Jared's more distant, somehow. She feels an absence in him when he kisses her, and she doesn't know what it is. She's probably just being hormonal.

But it niggles at her the whole week—nothing major, just little things that pile up: he grunts in reply to her questions, clearly not listening; they're out to dinner one night when his phones rings, and he spends twenty minutes talking to Chad while Sandy pokes listlessly at her salad; instead of going shopping with her on Saturday afternoon, he wants to sit on the couch and watch golf.

The golf is the last straw. Sandy flops down on top of Jared where he's all sprawled out on the couch. "What's wrong," she says.

Jared tucks his fingers in the waistband of her jeans, fingertips just brushing the curve of her ass. "Nothing's wrong, baby," he says. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I don't know," she says. "You just seem kind of—distracted, I guess."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Lemme make it up to you, okay?" He flips them over, his big body on top of hers, and Sandy wraps her arms around his neck when he kisses her.

He flies back to Texas on Sunday. Sandy drives him to the airport. "I wish you didn't have to leave," she tells him, driving circles in the parking deck.

"I know," he says. "I'll miss you. But I gotta spend some time with my family, babe, you know that. I'll come visit for your birthday."

"That sounds nice," Sandy says. She knows Jared misses his family a lot, and he doesn't get to see them very often—but she'd kind of hoped that by now he'd think of _her_ as his family.

She has a bad few days, after he leaves, and spends a lot of time sitting on the sofa in her sweatpants, watching chick flicks and eating Ben & Jerry's straight out of the carton. Jared isn't answering his phone, and she feels too out-of-sorts to leave him a message. She cries a lot. A pile of tissues sprouts on the coffee table, little wrinkled pink cloths like flowers.

It's so ridiculous. She doesn't even know what's _wrong_ , exactly—it's just a heavy feeling in her chest, sadness crouching there.

Yesenia comes home for the first time in days and finds Sandy sitting there, mid-cry. "Aww, sugar," Yesenia says, sitting down on the couch and wrapping her arms around Sandy. "What's the matter?"

"I don't _know_ ," Sandy wails, burying her snotty face in Yesenia's neck. "I just feel so—I feel—"

"Is this about Jared?" Yesenia asks. "Is he making you cry? I'll kill him."

"No, it's not—well, I mean, it _is_ , but he hasn't really _done_ anything, I'm just." Sandy pulls away and wipes at her face. "Sorry. I'm being stupid."

"Okay," Yesenia says. "Get up. Go take a shower. We're going shopping."

Sandy buys a pair of adorable polka-dotted wedges, and maybe she's shallow, but it makes her feel a lot better—not just the shopping, but being outside, and with Yesenia, who's kind of a flake but has the biggest heart of anyone Sandy's ever met.

Her mother used to tell her, "Don't mourn, organize," and it's been Sandy's motto for years—since the day of the funeral, standing there with various sobbing relatives, when she realized that she was going to have to take care of herself, because nobody else would.

So she organizes: after Yesenia heads off to her spinning class, Sandy cleans the whole house, top to bottom, and then she calls Jared.

"Hi, baby, it's me," she says. "I guess you're busy, but I just wanted to call and say hi, and also that I don't like feeling like I'm the only one who's actually in a relationship, okay? Don't be a jerk. I don't know what you're doing, but it can't possibly be so important that you can't take five minutes to call your girlfriend."

Stupid Jared. What does she need him for, anyway.

He calls her that evening, while she's making dinner, and apologizes more than he probably needs to, which makes Sandy think he was avoiding her on purpose. She can't worry about it; they're hundreds of miles apart. They'll figure things out when he comes to visit her next month.

"I forgive you," she tells him, and stirs her pasta.

She goes to the set of Jensen's movie the next day and hangs out until they break for lunch. One of the interns recognizes her as Jared's girlfriend and lets her wait in Jensen's trailer, where it's air-conditioned.

He comes in after a while, mohawk and weird fake jewelry and all. Sandy puts down her magazine. "I'm taking you out to lunch!" she says.

Jensen closes the door behind him and then just stands there, looking at her, his face cracked wide open.

She shifts uncomfortably. "Is filming going okay? I hope it's okay that I stopped by, I just thought..." She trails off, uncertain. The way he's looking at her—

He crosses the room, then, somehow launched into motion, and falls to his knees in front of the low couch she's sitting on. "Sandy," he says, his voice ragged, and then he's cupping her face in both his hands and leaning up and kissing her.

God help her, she kisses him back. He makes a low noise and bites at her upper lip, and Sandy lets her eyes fall shut, lets her hands settle on his shoulders, gripping the cloth of his shirt.

It's Jensen who pulls back—not Sandy. "Oh god," he murmurs.

"Jensen, we can't," Sandy says, softly. She feels flushed and shaky, and guilt's already forming a hard knot in her belly.

Jensen drops his head, pressing his face into her skirt, his chin digging into her kneecap. "I know," he says. "I know. Christ, Sandy. You're so important to me, and I—I don't want to lose your friendship, but." He takes a deep breath. "I can't keep pretending that friendship's all I want from you."

She touches his hair, hesitantly, feeling the crisp peak of it, and then the bristle of his muttonchops. "I have Jared," she says.

"Yeah," Jensen says. "I know." He sits up and looks at her, brushes his thumb against her cheekbone. "I don't think I can see you anymore," he says, and stands up and walks out of the trailer.

Sandy sits there for a while, her hands trembling in her lap. Then she picks up her magazine and goes home.

She calls Jensen nine times in the next two days—she counts—but he never answers, and he never calls her back.

She doesn't know what to do.

Her phone battery dies one night while she's out drinking with Megan and Christy, and when she charges it the next morning, she's got three messages—one from Yesenia, saying she'll bring her rent check over; one from Julia, complaining about her husband; and one from Jensen.

"Hi," he says. "Sandy. I, uh. I'm really drunk. I thought I'd—I guess, I dunno, I thought I'd call you and see if you're—but I guess you're, uh, doing something, so. Never mind." There's a long pause, then, just seconds of Jensen's quiet breathing, and then the message ends.

Her birthday's in the middle of August. Jared calls her the week before and tells her he won't be able to fly out.

She doesn't know what to think. "I—why not?" she asks, after long moments of silence.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he says, "it's just, there's this interview in New York—you know, promotional stuff—and I have to be there, for the new season, like. The network needs me to."

"I haven't seen you in a month," Sandy says, her throat tightening up, her voice going all high and strained. "My birthday." She feels like a little kid, whining about it being her birthday, but it's _Jared_ , who's supposed to love her the most.

"I know," Jared says, and he sounds truly regretful, which just makes it worse. "I'm just—I wish I could be there, Sandy, I just _can't_. I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you."

"Your career comes first," Sandy says, numb, realizing.

There's a pause. Jared makes a noise like he's hissing air through his teeth. "Yeah," he says. "It does."

She knows what she needs to do, then. It hurts, but in that good, clean way, like hot iron on a wound.

***

Filming's wrapped. Jensen's got a week before he needs to be in Vancouver again, but he's going to head up early—as soon as he can get packed and ship his boxes. There's nothing for him in LA. Just this crappy apartment, somebody's sublet, and a bunch of unpleasant associations.

He tries not to think about it.

It's raining today, like the universe is trying to prepare him for Vancouver's eternal drizzle. He's on the third floor, and all he can see out his kitchen window is the gray sky and the tree in the back courtyard, something huge and twisted that Jensen's never bothered learning how to identify.

The radio bleats another restaurant ad. Jensen folds up his extra pillowcases and tosses them in a box. He might even be able to get out of here today, if he doesn't fuck around too much.

The intercom buzzes. His heartbeat picks up, racing with hope in spite of everything common sense tells him. He trips over his own feet, scrambling toward the door.

He punches the button. "Yeah," he says.

"Hi," Sandy says—it's her, he knows it's her; he recognizes her voice, even distorted by the shitty intercom speaker. "Jensen. It's Sandy. Can I come up?"

"Yeah," he says, and breathes out. "Yeah, of course."

He paces in front of the door, wondering what's taking her so long—maybe she's waiting for the elevator instead of taking the stairs, or Mrs. Henderson's talking to her, or—

He frowns and forces himself to hold still. She might just be saying goodbye, it might not mean anything. He's getting all worked up over nothing.

She raps on the door, her tiny knuckles making more noise than he'd expect.

He opens the door.

She's soaked, her hair streaming rivulets of water down her arms, her tank top sticking to her skin, her jeans dragging soddenly on the floor. "Hi," she says.

"Sandy," he breathes. "You're so—what were you doing in the rain?"

"I was sitting on the front steps," she says. "I couldn't—I was trying to decide if I should ring your buzzer."

"Oh," Jensen says. He realizes she's still standing in the hallway and stands aside, waves her in. "I'll find some towels. You must be freezing."

He goes into the bathroom and leans his forehead against the wall, just breathing in. He didn't—he knew he'd see her again, at network stuff, but having her here, in his apartment, is making him feel hot and confused again, his belly spinning knots, and he thought he'd gotten over this, he thought he'd managed to convince himself to forget her.

He grabs two towels and goes back out into the living room. Sandy's still standing there, shivering, her little arms crossed beneath her breasts.

"Here," he says, handing her one of the towels, draping the other one around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she says, smiling at him. He feels stupid and too large, watching her carefully blot the water out of her hair.

"Sandy," he says. "Why are you here."

She won't look at him; folds the one towel and sets it on top of a box, clutches the other one around herself. "Can we sit down?" she asks.

"Yeah," Jensen says, and follows her to the sofa like a dog, trailing pathetically behind her.

She's shivering, sitting there, and he wants to wrap her in his arms until she's warm again. It makes him feel sick, how much he still wants her.

Sandy clears her throat. She looks down at her twisting hands, her thumbs rubbing over and over each other. "Jared and I broke up," she says.

Jensen feels his stomach bottom out, his heart leap up into his mouth. "You—what?"

"We broke up," she says. "Or, well, I broke up with him, and he—I couldn't—it just wasn't, we weren't working out, he wants to focus on his career and I'm—that's not a compromise I can make, I mean, I need someone who can be there for me, who—"

"Why are you telling me this," Jensen says, and he's scared, he's so scared.

"Jensen," she says. "I'm in love with you."

He shakes his head dumbly, disbelieving. "You don't—"

"I do," she says. "I know I don't—you probably don't believe me, but I just—I've been thinking about this a lot, Jensen, I haven't been able to think about anything else for _days_ , now, and you—I'm happy when I'm around you." She looks at him then, finally, her big dark eyes so serious, and he feels that hot rush inside of him, every one of his molecules straining toward her.

"Christ," he breathes, leaning in, tangling his hands in her damp hair and kissing her, feeling her open up for him, her tongue pressing against his, and he's here, with her, _finally_ , right where he wants to be.

He tugs the towel off her and dumps it on the floor, and she grins against his mouth, laughing into him.

"Sandy," he says.

"I know," she says, and lies back, tugs him on top of her. Her wet clothes are soaking into the couch, soaking Jensen's own clothes, but he doesn't care—none of it matters, when she's spreading her legs beneath him, drawing him into the cradle of her hips.

"Sandy," he says, his hands on her face, kissing her over and over again, his mouth gentle on hers. He feels her small hands sliding underneath his t-shirt, drawing it up toward his shoulders, and he shudders against her, wanting.

The radio plays something Jensen would recognize if he paid attention to it, but all his attention's focused on Sandy, her dark hair spreading over the beige couch cushions, her fingers struggling to get the button of her jeans through the wet denim. Rain spatters against the windows. Jensen touches Sandy's face.

He's full of wonder. It's slow and heated inside of him, and it builds as they move together, Sandy gasping with her head thrown back, Jensen's teeth at her neck, his hands careful on her breasts.

When he slides into her at last, she hitches her legs up around his hips and closes her eyes, biting hard on her lower lip; and he's watching her face as he thrusts carefully, feeling her flex hot and sweet around him, and there's nothing he would change about this moment, not one single thing.

***

...And then they get married (Jared is a groomsman) and have babies and live happily ever after, the end!  



End file.
